


The End

by ParasiticEye



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Anxiety, Blood and Violence, Dialogue, Drinking, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Mild Gore, Past Lives, Past Relationship(s), Past Violence, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, and a bit of comedy actually (trust me), miles is super gay, uhhh how to tag send helmp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24810121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParasiticEye/pseuds/ParasiticEye
Summary: Six years later, Murkoff is finally taken down. They celebrated with cheap beer cans over the fire in the middle of nowhere, talking of home and life, but the ending to the gang’s monumental victory was not something Waylon had expected to happen.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	1. Celebration

**Author's Note:**

> Outlast 3 ain't even out yet, and I'm thinking of the ending lol. But anyway, this is how I interpret what happens with Miles, Waylon and additionally Simon Peacock when the whole Murkoff business is finally over, and also how their friendship works  
> Ps. I'm just headcanon-ing that Simon is an Aussie (because of his accent), so I'm very sorry if the slang isn't accurate because it's poorly researched lmao
> 
> Enjoy!

They did it. It was done. Murkoff's ongoing projects, remaining facilities and every single faithful executive, pioneers and investors – Murkoff's network of subsidiaries is officially deconstructed. The international economy wobbled, sure, but compare it to the long history of violated human rights: it was worth it. Murkoff has hurt countless of lives, zipped a hundred tattle-tales, shut close the eyes of a million witnesses, and swept the bodies of martyrs under the rug; all in the name of science, progress and profit.

Disgusting.

"They were real pieces of shit, weren't they?" The worn out journalist rhetorically remarked as he fished out a cigarette from his pocket. Cigarettes don't really bring him the same satisfaction as the time he was fresh and alive, but it has become a habit anyway. Thanks to Murkoff’s research and hardwork, he won't contract any lung diseases or any disease at all because he was dead. Well, to say he was _dead_ wasn't all true, the Walrider hosting was way more complicated than that. As they say: God works in mysterious ways.

"You've already said that a thousand times now. We get your point and we agree, can we go home now?" Beside him, stands Waylon Park: the quiet IT guy stuck in the grey background who was able to bring the corporation to its knees like a dominatrix. He was braver and smarter than he gives himself credit for, Miles thinks. Without his brains, they wouldn’t have been able to hack into Murkoff security or secret files, or become untraceable through internet. And yet he looks down on himself, always branded himself as the weakest in the group when in fact he wasn’t.

Miles turns to Simon who had been silent the whole time. He looked him in the eye, as if seeking permission to go home. It had become a custom to turn to Simon Peacock to confirm the next course of action. Simon was their leader throughout the mission. Other than he was the eldest of the two, he had a library-worth of knowledge to Murkoff ranging from history to CEOs, and his dedication earned him a high level of respect from his two companions.

Simon only nodded and turned heel from the wreckage that once was a small-scale facility. Though small and hidden, the facility was a massive data storage. Working alongside the government, their decision to personally destroy the last facility was unauthorized and risky, but they ultimately decided against their doubts and superiors to achieve the satisfaction of having the last laugh face-to-face with the “last” standing piece of Murkoff.

The site was decimated to rubble and dust, not one ant could've survived. Before they had destroyed it though, they infiltrated the facility with ease and safely gathered all the essential documents and evidences. With these, they can feed truth to media, which is either anyone's greatest ally or worst enemy. The gang was relieved to have been able to get the media on their side. Nothing beats two woke journalists and an exceptional IT.

The world has their eyes on Murkoff now; they've got nowhere to run, or a company to plead to. They did try to bribe a few journalism organizations with a hefty sum many times, but it was a mistake each time. The fight was long and harsh, many - even those who are not remotely related to the three rogues - have died and disappeared mysteriously. Under the scrutiny of the government and media, Murkoff is finally cornered. In the end, they were able to prove that money and threat can’t beat courage, sacrifice and collective effort.

Today, six years after the Mount Massive incident, they did it. Murkoff was done, and it only took three men to point leads in the whole mission.

The wise leader, the clever brain and the trump card.

The gang brushed off dusts from their shirts and walked back to the jeep. Waylon lingered for little while, looking back to the demolished site. Whether his mind was tricking him, he could see the familiar faces of fallen allies, standing still as if they were bidding them farewell for the last time.

 _Anna Millers. Miguel Sanchez. Doctor Shirley Watson. Polly Baker. Alexei Gruchov. Professor Abhay Khatri._ And a million more anonymous people - commoners, rich, activists, informants and so forth- who sacrificed their lives to help bring down the corporation.

Waylon will never forget them.

* * *

It has been a long exhausting day. The final showdown wasn’t as big and adventurous as they had expected, but was grateful that it was a safe venture. The facility was almost abandoned; they were only a few guards and perhaps a dozen of faithful safekeepers of the stored data. It was draining to run around the facility despite it being small. The ride to and back was long and uneventful. When they arrived back to their trailer, they plopped down to each their beds with a sigh. They had nothing in mind but rest.

Simon shifts uncomfortably on the couch, trying to find an angle to sleep in. He was the shortest of the three, and therefore he can fit more in the couch. But damn, it was still uncomfortable. “I wish you two would stop being straight and share beds already so I can hog one of your beds.” Miles mumbles half-asleep, “Mm shut up and get over here if y’wanna so bad.” Simon turns to the other side with a defeated sigh, “No thanks.”

It was exhausting. For years, they've been in hiding. Jumping from one country to another, changing currencies, switching identities and learning new languages. One week, Waylon Park is Bryan Jones of Missouri, an underpaid salesclerk, and the next month he's Lucio Bianchi of Florence, a half Italian winemaker. When situations go out of hand, like when the Murkoff mercenaries were toe-to-toe with them for nearly a week or so, they stop blending in the society and outright drives away off the grid.

Currently, they reside in the middle of a rocky Californian desert, away from the roads, their trailer hidden away under a shade of an oddly shaped boulder. Acquiring necessities like food, water and medicine was hard considering their location, but since they have sided with the government, they’ve been aided. It helped too that the two other undead men are in less need of basic human needs anymore. Now that mission is accomplished, they can go back to their real homes. Back to Lisa, to his boys and the new home they're going to settle into. But that's just Waylon. Simon and Miles had nothing to go back to. They were practically homeless and orphaned, but perhaps they can start over with their lives? Change identities for the last time, and finally put the foot down?

No, that sounded something they’d find ridiculous. Waylon had planned what he will do once the Murkoff affair was over. He’ll reunite with his loving family, move to wherever state he and Lisa would agree on, work in a regular company (thank the Walrider no company is under Murkoff’s influences anymore), and try to slot back in the space in the society where he left off. Waylon knew there was still a possibility that it wasn’t going to go as planned, as much as he wants to dismiss his anxiety. What if Lisa had already remarried? What if his boys don't recognize him anymore? What if he failed to go back to normal?

Waylon’s life is shit now, sure, but until today, he never once stopped and considered what his partners were planning to do with their lives after this. When you put it into charts, Simon and Miles had it way worse than him, and yet here he was, only thinking for himself. Waylon felt a little selfish at the realization.

He shut his overthinking mind and drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Waylon felt so well-rested, it’s almost surreal. The trailer glowed in shades of orange haze; the sun must be setting. He stood and stretched his long limbs, almost reaching the ceiling.

The trailer was small, but it could house three adult men just fine. The ceiling was low but the walls weren’t as narrow as to fit a bunk bed, a couch and a kitchenette. There wasn’t much furniture or decoration: no paintings, no framed photographs of families, no vases, no drawers, or carpets. The paint on the walls were beginning to grey and crack, and the carpeted floor were stained of dried blood and grime their boots brought along home. The trailer’s structure was built for basic living purposes: a bed, a bathroom and a kitchen.

It was basic, it was simple. Boring and essential. Sad and sufficient. But it won’t have to be like this anymore. It was odd to say that Waylon had actually grown comfortable in the trailer. Too much memories made that it grew into sentiment.

He went over to the kitchen for water, and found a couple of beer cans in the cooler, to his surprise. He chuckled lightly, “Hey, who brought these drinks?” Neither of them answered; both still knocked out, he figures.

 _That_ tired, huh?

Well, since it’s here now, he might as well set up fire and chairs outside. This could be their first nice little celebration.

The night sets in, and the three of them were well awake. Waylon had unfolded the chairs outside, grabbed a barrel of discarded wood and scratch paper, and sparked a fire. It was incredibly dark, their only source of light were the clouded moonlight and their small barrel bonfire. Waylon brought the cooler outside, opened a can just in time as the two came out of the trailer yawning and rubbing eyes.

“What’s this all about?” Simon slurred. “Pre-celebration,” Waylon smiled and gestured them to sit, “Found these beer cans in the cooler, where did you get these?”

The two other men sat comfortably. Simon answered, “Loot, don’t ask where.” Waylon tossed them a can each, Simon muttered a quick “Thanks, me cobber.” Miles cracked one open, “You’re stealing again?”

“Oh shush, don’t act like stealing is worse than viciously murdering people, Miles,” The hooded man took a swig, and added, “And I’ve always been stealing shit, you just didn’t know.” He laughed, Miles just sighs and chases his annoyance away with a gulp of his drink.

Attention turned to Waylon as he cleared his throat and raised his beer can by the fire. “A cheap toast to our victory.” The two raised theirs as well and together they drank at the same time.

It was nice like this, just the three of them detached from the rest of the world. If there’s one thing that Waylon has learned about the society during their run, it was tiring and repetitive. Too much social interaction before work gets done, too many people misunderstanding them. Everyone wants the same thing, everyone is either ignorant or ignored, everyone lived in so much peace and safety that he couldn’t imagine what they must be doing with their lives. He can’t believe he had been living in the same peace, once upon a time.

Being with Simon and Miles was the best thing he could ask for in the run. Perhaps not the perfect ones - they’ve argued with each other a lot - but he was just grateful he wasn’t alone. They were only people who could ever understand each other. When Waylon comes home, would Lisa understand him too in the same level as they have? They've spent too long away from each other, it wouldn't surprise him if she fails to recognize him at all.

Waylon clears his throat, suddenly remembering his earlier question, “So, now that mission’s over, what are you two planning to do?” There was a brief glance sent to each other before Waylon could even catch. Miles answered in a satirical tone, “Don’t know. Maybe I’ll finally put a ring on it and live with Simon in a house somewhere on Mount Massive range.”

“I am rejecting the proposal.” The hooded man scoffed. “You know, basically you’re a part of me so you can't reject me. I can legitimately say I’m inside you right now-” They groaned, Waylon said, “That’s gross, Miles, don’t say it out loud.”

“Well it’s the truth. Why are you all grossed out? In fact, I have the most right to be grossed out because I can feel Wally building beams over his collapsing innards for _six years_.” They groaned more in disgust.

Wally, of course. Miles insisted giving that name to the Walrider, because Walrider was apparently a mouthful for him (Simon called him bludger). The other two didn’t really want to nickname such a monstrosity, but Miles always proclaims in a bothering manner that he and “Wally” are so close to each other it’s almost euphoric. Or as Miles worded it, “It’s like fucking yourself.”

Waylon will never understand the Walrider.

Miles grinned, “But at least I can do this.” A second later, Simon jumps and slapped a free hand over his crotch in pain. He laughed as Simon groaned, “You asshole!” Waylon looked half worried and half amused, “What did you do?” The man only laughed some more before explaining, “I worked on the nerve endings on his little Peacock and bit it with an ant.”

“I hate you.” Simon sits down uncomfortably. Miles smiled, “Love you too, sweetheart.”

The laughter died down, leaving it to the night critters and the crackling fire to fill the silence. Waylon empties the few drops of his beverage into the fire, and cracked open another can. He realized that his question was never answered, but before he could ask again, Simon had already spoken.

“Twelve years,” Attention turned to him, “I can’t believe it took me twelve years to see my work paid off.” Simon stared into the fire. Through the bright flames, he reminisces the past years of his work. The fire burns bright, crawling around his chest and up to his head, rekindling the dead memories lying useless. The failures, near-deaths and _death_ before success. It crawls warmly, blossoming a great self-satisfaction every man would desire to achieve in life: the satisfaction of fulfilling a purpose.

Simon shot a meaningful gaze to Miles. It was as if their eyes were carrying a silent conversation, and the conversation was glum. Perhaps they were communicating through the Walrider? Waylon didn’t know. The question was, what are they talking about?

The gaze broke when Waylon interrupted, “You know, Simon, I realized that I don’t know much about you before Murkoff.” Miles nodded along, “Yeah, tell us about your life before we go.”

Simon slouched on his seat, craning his head upward to the endless night sky glittered with little stars. The sky was easier to view without the smoke of the city, just as it was easier to reach heaven without the coal-black clouds of the Swarm. “To be frank, I’ve lost most of my memory. The Walrider can’t recover lost data, unfortunately, and it also can’t retain new ones for much longer.” It was sad to think that Simon’s life has become a blur to him, but he was somewhat grateful it was. He will never remember the people he had hurt, nor count the crimes he had committed. Guilt was easier to dismiss, and he was able to detach and harden himself for the mission. Horribly immoral for a moral cause, but then again, he wasn’t entirely human any more.

“What’s the farthest you can remember, then?” Simon closed his eyes. In the black vision, he dug for the bedrock of his crumbling memory. He could feel barely the movement of the working nanites crawling fast in his rotting brain. He could remember holding an envelope, crisp and without a crease. On the back of it, the logo of the company he long dreams to work in: the charitable and progressive Murkoff Corporation, one of the top leading in research in different fields of science. Other than it was ranking high, they had a good charts of philanthropic work to present. He’s read so many articles regarding financial donations and the causes that Murkoff has supported. Hope blossomed in his heart at every article.

Back then, he was so clueless of the evil behind the facade. He slept in peace while human suffering occurred under the rugs. “The first moment I received the letter of confirmation. I was officially hired. It was only a six-month contract, but I’ve never been happier to share the news to everyone, especially to…someone I tried to impress, I can’t remember who.” Simon shuts his eyelid harder as if it would somehow recollect the memory. He could remember the feeling very well, yes. The bubbling joy spreading across his chest, prompting a smile on his face and a little dance to shake off the excitement. But the faces of people were blurry, his old apartment was blurry, and even his own face when he was young and alive he had forgotten. He will die remembering his life a series of grim events in a vague dreamlike state.

“God help us, we were idiots back then.” Miles finishes the drink in one go as they chuckled. It was true, even Waylon had felt the same joy. Perhaps not in the same giddiness as Simon had, but he was happy all the same. He knew the company paid well, and at that time, he was unemployed and Lisa was struggling to feed the family with what little she can make as an art teacher. Waylon had felt incredibly guilty for failing his job interviews every time he tried to apply despite the fact he had a good educational background, but Lisa insisted that she was handling it fine and doesn’t blame him at the slightest. He was just really having difficulty to talk to people, and being alone in the room under the scrutiny of his hopefully would-be superiors criticizing his every word and fidget heightens his anxiety more. He will forever thank god (if they ever exist) for the existence of Lisa Park and her empathic heart.

The fact that he was accepted by a well-known company that pays a huge salary lifted off some guilt. Lisa was able to sleep a few more hours since then, and the boys are no longer bullied for their father being a wimpy unemployed man. For once, he did something right for Lisa and the boys, but even that had turn out wrong. He hoped they would forgive him one last time, because if they wouldn’t, he can never forgive himself.

“Then you know what happened with the rest. I worked, earwigged a conversation and it all went downhill from there.”

“What about David? You talked about him sometimes.” Miles asked curiously. “Ah well, working with him was brief. He was very much like you Waylon: quiet, smart, and anxious but could point a gun to ya head if he wants to.”

 _‘As if I could even hold a gun,’_ Waylon thought wryly. “Too bad he was subdued quickly, I wish he could’ve made it with us.”

David Annapurna. Probably the only guy he personally met that he remembers. He was an IT much like Waylon, but always zoning out. Simon had snapped his fingers three times to his face and he didn’t even notice until he raised his voice. Sometimes, he pinches him to test the theory if his skin wasn’t, in fact, synthetic as though he can’t feel a thing. In the end, Simon could only conclude that the IT definitely needed more sleep.

David was smarter and more trustworthy than he gives himself credit, that’s why when Simon picked up on the red signs on his workplace, the first and only person he entrusted the information with was him. It turns out he was right, he never ratted his partner out when he mysteriously disappeared one day. That day was Simon’s wake-up call to spring to action. He regretted that he waited his friend to be taken away before doing something.

Simon’s contemplation was broken when Miles flatly stated, “Oh you _definitely_ made out.” He looked as if he just said the most obvious thing in the world. Simon shot him a look of disbelief, “Jesus Christ, Miles, my partner is dead and you want to know if we made out?”

“Loved how you said my name twice. And I didn’t ask, I _stated_.” He emphasized, as a matter of fact. “The answer is no, and he was only a colleague I worked with briefly. And I’m not gay, so stop it.”

“That’s what I said too when I was fourteen.”

“I would’ve killed you the first time I met you if I wasn’t dead first.”

“What a shame, would’ve been sexy if you did. Though you don’t have to worry about that for long.” Simon shot him a sharp glance, the journalist was quick to shut his mouth.

Waylon just sat back and watched the whole banter, laughing inwardly. They were funny to watch when they bicker, it’s like watching his boys at twelve year old age fighting over petty things like who gets to wash the dishes when in fact, they’re two grown men who had just taken down one of the largest multinational piece of shit of a corporation in the whole world.

The night grows darker by minute, and the men were started to get sloppy. As his head was dizzying, Waylon asked, “What 'bout you, Miles? What’s life without journalism?” He tossed the second last beer can to the journalist, which he caught and cracked, the can fizzing. “You can’t separate Miles Upshur and journalism, Way. If I have nothing to write, I might as well die.” He swooned dramatically.

“C’mon be serious, like did you have a boyfriend or a dream goal or?”

"You wouldn't believe me if I said I had a girlfriend in high school," He had forgotten her name, but it was just a fling anyway. Being with her made him realize how much of a terribly gay boyfriend he was. As expected, the relationship was short-lived because Miles hadn't spend much time with her (too busy with school journalism and making up for his science class). "And initially, I wanted to learn forensic medicine, and thank god I didn't." He failed his science subjects. In another dimension, Miles would've gotten a medical degree, then take the major he initially wanted, and his mother would pressure him to working for Murkoff. And he swore he had never disobeyed his mother's wishes.

Simon remarked, “God, we sound like a bunch of teenage girls having a secret slumber party, telling secrets and life stories like this.” He broke to a laughter. Waylon laughed sardonically, “Yeah! Teenage girls, reminds me of the time you abducted that poor girl to manipulate Paul Marion.” The hooded man pointed his finger, “Hey! That was for a - for a good reason. If we - if we didn’t do done that we wouldn’t have been able to make a 180 turn without Marion on our side.” Miles was laughing by his side, “Dude! You’re pointing without your finger!” Only then did Simon realize he was pointing the finger that he chopped off.

The act was to threaten Paul, to convince that he did mean business. But he couldn’t bring himself to chop off the poor girl’s finger, and thankfully, his index finger was looking fine enough. And so he painted a nail and left it on the floor.

It was a funny decision, looking back at it six years later. Simon reminisced, “I kind of missed her, she was very sweet, you know?”

“Yeah, but you two were really freaky with your _‘being dead’_ matter, and you scared her off!”

“Oh no, wasn’t me, it’s just him,” Miles pointed accusingly to Simon, “I mean, if I was a fifteen year old girl kidnapped by a shady hooded stranger, I’d be fucking shitting my pants too.”

“You _were_ abducted by a shady hooded stranger, if I recall, he was the one shitting pants.” Simon let out an disappointed sigh, “God you were a drongo to be captured like that. How can you not -"

“I was off-guard! Wally and I were resting -” Miles gestured his hands defensively. God, not this again. “Alright! Alright! Ladies, calm. We’re not going to have this argument again.” Waylon interfered.

That one time with Miles being kidnapped by a Murkoff agent was surreal and hilarious, but also a warning sign. The mercenary had a strange device that had the ability to somehow temporarily weaken the Walrider, and Miles was _dying_ at the back of the kidnapper’s car. But luckily the device malfunctioned and the Walrider gained back its control. They found out later that Murkoff was very well aware who the new Walrider host was, and were secretly creating prototypes to kill the very creation they spent time, blood, sweat and money to create.

Karma stings like a bitch.

Somehow in an alarming situation like that, these two nutheads are still able to find humor.

Though Waylon wants to watch them bicker once more, the night was getting deeper, and hitting the beds right now sounded very pleasing. “I’m out, my head is starting to hurt. You clean up here after you’re done.” They mocked a child voice in unison, “Yes, dad.”

Waylon just rolled his eyes and walked towards the trailer. Behind him, he could hear them murmur, but he’s too dizzy to understand. He went back inside.


	2. Confession

Waylon woke up with a intense urge to empty his bladder. He slowly cracked open his eyelids, his eyes adjusting to the dark and there by the table, he briefly caught a shadowy figure rummaging on their desk before going out the door. Who was that?

He stood up and figured that his companions were gone. Guess they haven’t slept yet, what time is it anyway?

Waylon went straight to the comfort room for a quick relief, before cautiously looking out the window. The fire was put out, it was pitch black outside. His anxiety heightened, heart racing at the knowledge that his partners were gone and a stranger was in here while he was sleeping. He wasn’t sure if the stranger were either Miles or Simon, the trailer’s too dark and the man was too cloaked. What if they were wrong and there are still Murkoff dogs out for them? What if they’re captured? Or _dead_ dead by a prototype they missed to destroy?

He immediately reached for the handgun under the couch, and checked the magazine: full. He slid it back in.

It’s a defense protocol. He never wanted to hold a gun, but Simon insisted. He was a wise man, he’s experienced enough for Waylon to trust in teaching him how to fire. Waylon’s confidence boosted when the agent who visited them informed him that Lisa too was learning self-dense and firing lessons herself to prepare for cases of unforeseen events. As much as he hated the thought of Lisa’s life in danger much that she would have to hold a gun, he was relieved that she took the lessons. No one could say what Murkoff was planning, or if ever they’re going after his family again in an unexpected day, and he is not going to be around to protect them.

This was his doing, he put their lives in danger and it was his fault it had come to this. “Forgive me, Lisa.” Waylon whispers to himself, hoping that she would hear him a million miles away. He gulps as he quickly inspects the table the stranger was fiddling with. No pens taken, not a paper stolen. He slid the drawers open and found Miles’ journal. Waylon knew not to touch it, but had to make sure the stranger didn’t rip off an important note or whatever’s Miles is noting in there.

He skimmed through the journal, careful not to let the papers slipped inbetween pages to fall out. God, his handwriting was shit. Even if Miles says that the answer to the capability of discrete logarithm to be computed in polynomial time is written in his journal, he would rather solve it himself. Skimming through, he did catch a few scribble of Waylon and Simon’s name, but mostly it was Waylon’s. _‘What? He’s got a crush on me now?’_ Waylon joked inwardly.

An envelope fell out.

It was a scratch paper folded as an envelope, and a tape is in stead of a stamp. At the back, it writes: “ _To Waylon Nerd Park, from your pals.”_

Waylon squinted his eyes in the dark to make sure he read correctly. It was Simon’s handwriting, of course he wouldn’t trust Miles to write it. And although it was a joke, Waylon wondered if they did know that ‘N’ was his middle initial.

He would’ve smiled at the fact the two had written a letter exclusively for him and had it hidden away in Miles’ precious journal if he wasn’t so baffled and anxious right now. There were so many questions running in his head, but for now he stuffs the envelope in his pocket. He would have the two explain it later after he finds them.

He grabbed for a flashlight, but the battery was dead. Looks like it’s going to be with a good old camcorder. _‘Just like good times,’_ he grinned lightly. He wore a bullet vest and a black hooded cloak, with a camcorder on one hand and a handgun with the other. He took a deep breath, _‘This isn’t going to be like Mount Massive,_ ’ he reassures himself like a mantra. Six years ago, he was a scared, soft-spoken and defenseless person who can only run and hide. But he’s grown since then. He ran through hell armless and barefoot, and returned with a loaded gun to close the gate.

He poked his head out into the vast desert: coast clear. In the not-so far off distance, he could barely make out a shadowy figure using the clouded moonlight and night vision. The stranger was walking towards another man, who seemed to be waiting for him. He followed behind, the night breeze gusting against his direction. Thankfully, he had long legs that could walk over a huge step, so he was able to close distance enough to hear their almost indistinct conversation.

“We didn’t really have to walk all the way here,” Wait, they sounded familiar. “Would you rather risk he hears us?” The two stopped nearby a rock mount, luckily it was dark and there was a rock nearby Waylon that he could crouch behind.

He didn’t know why he was being left out of this conversation, nor why they seem to be so…secretive.

“Are you sure about this, Simon?” He has never heard such a solemn tone from Miles. That was the tone he used to strangers, or when talking about serious matters, or planning for an infiltration. The other man suppressed a grin and said, “You should be asking that question to yourself. I am more than prepared, Miles. My purpose is fulfilled.”

Waylon’s heart raced. What was he saying?

Simon continued, “Almost fulfilled, pardon. This is the last step of the mission. The ending always was this. Inevitable. You know this, Miles, and yet you chose to attach yourself.” Miles raised a tone, “I am not attached!”

Then silence. Nothing but wind carrying the sand on its way.

“This thing is a curse.”

“And a blessing.”

“For a purpose.”

There was a bitter taste in the way he said it. Miles let out a weary sigh, “At least I get to bring justice till the very end.”

Waylon could hear a faint echo of a case being opened. Curiously, he peeked over the rock just in time as the clouds unveiled the moon and the surface of the device in Simon’s hand glinted at contact with the moonlight. The device was a small, hand-sized round metal plate that looked similar to a landmine. Its surface was smooth and buttonless. Waylon recognized it.

It was the completed prototype of the Walrider-exterminating device.

“Project Horerczy. Doctor Wernicke did like German mythology.” Simon inspected the device, trying to understand its exterior workings. Miles eyed it with hesitation and seemingly, determination. “Another horrible creation named to honor a horrible person.”

But they destroyed it, all of it in the hidden underground facility along with the rest of the unfinished ones. Did Simon steal this too? Why would he - Why would they, if the Walrider’s dead - They weren’t even sure if this device is effective!

Simon settled the device down on the small rock mount, and reached for a document in his coat. “We could always do this later, Miles, we’re not in a hurry.” The document seemed to be the instruction of the exterminating device. The journalist lowered his head in deep contemplation. He answered, “No. I want this to be the last day. Nothing could be better than this one.” As Simon reads the document with his eyes, he asked him, “Why? You haven’t even the slightest idea of what tomorrow could bring. Maybe it’s better, who knows? We haven’t even had a proper celebration for this victory.”

“You’re wrong.” Miles looked him straight in the eye as he repeated,“You’re wrong. This was a proper celebration.” The hooded man had finally stopped reading. He fished out a lighter and burned the document. Only then did Simon speak when the paper turned into dust.

“Why?” His fingers caressed the device. It was a rounded flat plate, fitted perfectly on his hands. Waylon’s anxiety grows, waiting for an answer. It may have been dark, but Waylon could see the curve of Miles’ grin defined by moonlight. That perfect curve, confident and resolved.

_Resolved._

“I get to spend it with the only important people I care about. With a drink. What’s not proper about that?”

Simon and Waylon, the only important people _Miles Upshur_ cared about, and he said it as if there were no other people in his life. What about his past life? The people who cared for him before Mount Massive incident? Sincerity spoke volumes through his voice, and it told a story to Waylon that Miles’ truly was a lonely man even before Mount Massive.

Waylon felt his heart twinge in sympathy and joy and love. He felt important to someone, and he hasn’t felt this feeling since Lisa first confessed to him in college. This was a confession, he is hearing a confession but it was different. With Lisa, it was a first confession that blossomed a promising love life, but with Miles, it was the last.

He heard a click. “Any last words, mate?” They laughed. “You sound like a movie villain.” Even in the most grim situations, the two always find their humor, and Waylon doesn't know how or why, but he will _not_ stand by this.

“Stop!”

The boys turned direction of the voice, both alarmed and sporting a stance ready for running. They stilled in surprise to recognize an angry Waylon Park marching with temper towards them. Each step was a stomp as he pulled down his hoodie. “What are you doing?!” Each word was emphasized in anger and _hurt_. He snatched the device away from Simon’s loose grip, and shot a look of disappointment to them both. They tried to avert eyes in what seemed like shame. Miles scrambled to find his words, but was only able to stutter incoherently. The other man spoke in his stead, “You weren’t supposed to find out.”

“Find out? Find out what?! That you’re committing _suicide_ and leaving me alone to pick up your _corpses_ in the middle of the desert?!”

“This has to be done!”

“Why!” Waylon was on the verge of tears. His emotions were mixing, he can’t distinct it from one another - he doesn’t know which one to feel but all of it had one thing in common: pain. What kind of problem did they have to find this as a solution? How dare they not discuss this with Waylon beforehand; they were a team! They've always been a team. And to think just a few hours ago, they were drinking and laughing by the warm fire.

Miles refused to look him in the eyes, because he know his were black and they were telltale to Waylon. When one is hurt, they resort to defense mechanism. Miles’ defense mechanism just happened to be the Walrider.

He steeled himself. This was a possibility he had foreseen. Miles recited as practiced, “Our work is not done until the Walrider’s existence is exterminated wholly. Waylon,” he holds Waylon’s hand, but the other man pulled it away, “Simon and I are bi-products of Murkoff’s doing. The Walrider is the last living remnant of Murkoff, and our mission has always been to eradicate everything they have created.”

Waylon attempted to argue, "But the Walrider - If you kill it, you - you -"

He fell silent. Realization was slowly dawning to him. He was right. How could he not have thought of this as a possibility? The Walrider, no matter how it is controlled by the host, is an advanced slaughtering machine who will feed off suffering and death. As long as it lives, it will feed. He dreamed too much of optimism, of returning to his family and living happily ever after that he had not stopped and considered that his partners' future. The bottomline is they were just two dead people poorly held up for the Walrider to house in. They were embodiment of agony, pain and death prolonged.

The Swarm is a curse for them, but a blessing for the purpose of destroying Murkoff.

“The Walrider can’t continue existing. And if I will not do it myself, the government will start thinking to, sooner or later.” Miles knew the risk when the trio had agreed to reach out the government's help, yet he chose to do it. They can't run the missions without strengthening the government's suspicion and distrust on the ghostly aura tailing behind Miles. They had to explain (without telling the whole truth) the Walrider and convince how it would help them greatly with the mission for them to trust the three fugitives. They were well aware of what the Walrider can do, and very much agree that its existence is going to be harmful if it's got no Murkoff dogs to play around with.

It can’t end like this. They had a long history together, and that will be all lost if it ends like this. “T-They don’t have to know! You can just hide out, like this! Like -” His voice raised a pitch as his desperation grew.

They didn’t have to know, no one has to know, they can live out the rest of their days.

Out here.

In the vast desert of nothing.

Waylon let out a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding in. He can’t give up, no, because in front him were also two of the most important people he cared about. He fumbles with words as he clawed deep in his mind for a reason or an excuse - he doesn’t care. “Besides you can control Wally! It’s not like you will harm anyone. Right?” Waylon shakes Miles’ shoulders, looking him straight in the eye. The sclera were pitch black, a result of affliction of this predicament. Waylon was beyond the point of being scared of it anymore. Into the abyss of his eyes, he dug and dug for an answer, a validation to his desperation.

He found nothing but walls. His voice grew quieter, “Miles, right?” He shakes him again, but the walls didn’t budge. He turned to his other friend, “Simon?” The shadow of his hood obscured the emotion showing clear through his face. Waylon may not have seen, but Simon’s lip was trembling. He only shook his head slowly.

Waylon’s hands loosened the grip on Miles’ shoulders, and they fell uselessly on his sides.

He knew what the Walrider was and what all it ever wanted.

 _“The Walrider, no matter how it is controlled by the host, is an advanced slaughtering machine who will feed off suffering and death. As long as it lives, it will feed.”_ Someone told him few years ago. He was a smart person with an exceptional memory skill, he remembered every detail of the second time he saw Miles kill a person in front of him. The godawful putrid smell, the ribbons of viscera and blood painting the floor and walls. It wasn’t like that time with Jeremy Blaire, no, that was the Walrider.

The second time had been Miles himself.

The Murkoff agent in disguise had stabbed him in the shoulder. He had forgotten the pain of the stabbing because he froze in fear, not because of the agent, but the person with dark, dark eyes behind him. Without a warning, Miles grabbed the man off him and threw him over the wall with inhumane strength. Black veins on his temples were pulsing angrily as the air around Miles began to swirl and darken. The swarm was manifesting, but it wasn’t taking form. Waylon wasn’t so sure if his damaged mind was playing tricks on him, but Miles’ hands were blackening and fingers growing sharper and they buried into the poor man’s skull. With merely a hand, he crushed the assassin’s head into a pulp while the other hand pierced through the bullet vest and into his chest. Waylon gagged and puked, and before even recovering, a generous splat of red liquid showered him and painted the room red.

He couldn’t raise his head, fearing that whoever the man disguising as his friend would come to hurt him. The room is so red, and the smell was familiar: the trademark scent of Mount Massive Asylum. He trembled violently, unable to control his breathing and his head started feeling light, light, too light -

 _“Hey,”_ A human hand rested on his forgotten injured shoulder. _“Does it hurt?”_ The man lifted his chin, and Waylon was more than relieved to see a pair of hazel eyes instead of pitch black. “Breathe with me, okay?” He held his hands and they counted.

Later that night, they couldn’t sleep. They sat on the futon for hours talking about nothing and everything. Miles had found opportunity to confess how he felt when he killed that assassin. “It was invigorating, elating…and even pleasurable,” Miles always was straightforward with his descriptions, but personally hearing the words pour out of his mouth in such a ecstatic manner made Waylon grimace and wonder if this was an effect of the Walrider. Miles didn’t kill in defense for Waylon: he murdered with vigor for himself.

Only now did Waylon fully acknowledge what he said back then.

“I don’t think we will ever be human any more, Way.” Miles said to him, Simon silently agreed. Waylon enters a brief state of panic until he felt rage bubbling inside his chest. It threatens to climb and spill out of his lips all the irrational thoughts unfiltered, but tears were faster to roll down his cheeks. “So what? This is it? You’ll just disappear?” He swallowed his anger, and tried to steel himself for the answer he already knows. Their silence was confirmation, they stood motionless in the desert, uncertain of what each other were thinking.

Waylon can’t just _stand_ there and wait for them to throw away their lives, and he can’t walk away either, knowing that behind him were his friends about to - to -

Simon broke the deafening silence for the sake of the three of them, “It doesn’t have to be today.” Miles turned to the leader, his pitch black eyes asking for confirmation to let this night pass. They both nodded in agreement, conversing quickly with their eyes. Simon gently pries the Horerczy from Waylon’s loose grip. He felt Waylon’s resignation when he completely let go. He took one long look at it: the would-be second death of Simon Peacock and Miles Upshur, round, harmless and inactivated on his palms. It was almost activated at this very hour. They almost died for good at August 11th of year 2019, late midnight in the middle of the desert, had Waylon not cheated their death for one night more. 

He places the death device back into the fur-pelted inside of the case. On the corner of his eye, his two companions were hugging each other dearly as the soft-hearted Waylon sobs quietly onto his shoulder. Death was a scene they faced on a daily basis, but not this one.

Hearing Waylon cry was something they had not heard for so long. The last time was, if Simon could remember, when his trauma was triggered badly, and Miles had to help bring his feet down to earth and do breathing with him just as they were doing now. Though Miles was naturally an impatient man, he was more patient than Simon ever could when it comes to comforting Waylon.

They stood there in the dark of the desert, the journalist patiently comforting Waylon until his sobbings ceased into small hiccups. The moment was broken when Simon asked genuinely, “Ya wanna give Agent Whiener a call tomorrow? Say we’re goin’ home.”

The two snorted despite being in an emotional whirl. Miles smiled, stroking Waylon’s back, “God, not Agent Whiener.”

“Don’t make fun of the man, he fished us dills out of the pit a couple.”

“Yeah, Agent Whiener to the rescue sounds like a great headline.” Waylon playfully slaps a hand on Miles. “Ow! Why’d you do that?”

The air lifted around them when Waylon raised his head off Miles’ shoulder with a teary-eyed smile. It wasn’t his best smile, his face was all scrunched up and his beautiful green eyes were puffy, but it was enough to lift the heaviness in the air.

The couple turned to Simon, their now ex-leader, to confirm the next course of action. The gesture was meaningless now honestly, but it flattered Simon that the two still look up to him even with the mission over. Simon walked back to the direction of their home with the case in hand as the two followed behind hand-in-hand, if Simon suspects correctly.

The night didn’t go as planned, he thinks, but for Waylon they would let this one pass. But whether they extend it up to tomorrow, or the next day, the next week, the next month - the ending is inevitable.


End file.
